All my life, I'd been close to my father. He was so easy to talk to; with his great knowledge of our world, it seemed he could answer any question or solve any problem. But now, for the first time ever, I couldn't think of how to tell him where I'd been.
How could I explain to this kind, patient man what had happened to me since I'd left Kelethin? This was the same man, after all, who had silently cleaned the kitchen after I'd tried to make vegetable pie in my fourth season. He was the one who, without saying an unkind word, cut my sticky hair after I'd upended a jar of royal jelly into it. He'd bandaged my many childhood scrapes, got me up in the morning, taught me how to read. This man--educated, reliable, gentle Llewellyn the Scholar--was the whole reason I was a druid in the first place.
I'd never wanted anything so much as to be exactly like him. That is, until the past three weeks. Now, I'd found out that this man I admired so much was a religious bigot who'd treated Zophia cruelly just for helping someone of a different race. Hiding behind his faith in Tunare, he'd passed judgment against his best friend. He'd just saved my life, and Fredow's, but I couldn't say anything.
I stood there with my mouth open, trying to form any sentence at all. I could stand like this forever, I thought, and the right words will never come.
Fredow saved me. "I hate to bring this up," he said, "But, er, well, I seem to be bleeding." He pointed at a large gash on his foot.
"Hm," Father said, "So you are. Hold still, now. This won't hurt." He raised his arms, and a blinding blue-white light snaked from the end of his fingers, surrounding Fredow. "That's chlorophyll," he said, "The same substance that makes plants grow. You'll be good as new in a minute."
"Thanks!" Fredow said. "I feel better already. I'm not bleeding--hey, look! The cut is gone!" He wiggled his foot. "Are you a druid, too?" he asked my father.
"Yes," Father said. "And now, I think we'd better see about getting you back to Rivervale, where you belong."
Fredow shrugged. "I can go back by myself," he said. "I know the way. You just have to stay on the path, and--"
"Don't travel at night!" I said. We laughed.
Fredow looked up at the sky. "I think I probably have enough time to find a card game," he said. "If those guards are still around at the toll booth. They always want me to take their money!"
I held a hand out toward the little rogue. "Fredow," I said, "I don't know how to thank you."
"Well..." An evil grin spread across Fredow's face. "Do you like to play cards?"
I laughed. "Go find those guards before I lose all my cash!"
Fredow hugged my father, and then me, and without another word, he ran east toward the tollbooth. "Good luck!" I called after him.
And then, I was alone with my father. We stood there with the sun shining down on us, and the insects buzzing. A skeleton wandered by, ignoring us. Father adjusted the straps on his backpack. I picked some stray forest foliage out of my hair.
"Do you still like tea?" Father finally said.
"Oh, yes!" I said, too loudly, nodding my head so hard my hair flew about. "Tea! I love tea."
"Well, let's go find a place to have some tea. I haven't been here in a long time, but there used to be an inn right over that hill."
We started out in the direction he'd pointed. He wasn't stupid, I thought as we walked along. Father knew me better than anyone else--and even if he'd known me only a little, he would have seen my silence as unusual. All my friends teased me for my habit of suddenly blurting out questions and observations. The Heartwood Master frequently punished me for it: once I'd had to write "I will wait until other people have finished speaking before I ask for clarification" one thousand times, just for asking why brownies didn't have wings.
No, I wasn't one to keep quiet. Father had to know something was bothering me. I looked over at him in his "dress-up" armor, the suit he only wore when traveling, and I knew one thing: I still loved him, no matter what he'd done. I wasn't the subtlest or wisest of elves, but I had to find a way to tell him everything without hurting his feelings.
The inn was still there, on the border between the East and West sides of the Commonlands. Many tables were empty at that early hour; we chose one near a window. Still, neither of us said anything, except to order tea from the distracted barmaid.
The tea arrived. And then, Father spoke. "The last time I was here," he said, "You weren't born yet. I hadn't even met your mother."
"That was a long time ago," I said.
"Well, it doesn't seem that long." Father swirled the tea in his mug. "I told you the story of how I came to Freeport back then, to lead a group of recruits for the Soldiers of Tunare.
"The world was much different in those days, so maybe it has been a long time after all." He sighed. "Life was much more difficult for the citizens of Kelethin when I became a druid."
I wasn't sure I agreed, but I nodded. "The Heartwood Master said that the Crushbone orcs would often come to the city."
"Yes, they did." Father turned to look at me. "But the orcs weren't the only creatures intent on driving us away. The pixies tried to burn us out when first we built our homes. Your grandfather--my own father--was a member of the Kelethin Firestoppers."
"I remember," I giggled. "That's why he used to jump out of bed in the middle of the night and run around yelling and waving a bucket."
Father smiled. "It's funny now," he said. "In those days, it was serious business. The Firestoppers had to be ready to fight any fire, any time it happened. Thanks to them, we still have a city."
"Why did the pixies give up?" I said. "You don't see too many around these days."
"We drove them out." Father sat back in his chair. "Dill Fireshine, the Ranger guildmaster, offered a bounty on pixies. Before long, almost every citizen could boast of having brought at least six portions of pixie dust to the Ranger guild."
"That's why the pixies ran to the Lesser Faydark," I said.
"It is." Father turned toward the window again to watch a Deathfist orc run past. I looked at him. He didn't seem angry with me for being away for so long without sending word. I didn't know whether to be relieved at that, or frightened. Maybe this time I'd really gone too far. We had to get this over with.
I took a deep breath. "Father, I--"
He turned. "Don't," he said. "I knew you could find Zophia, and I know what he must have said to you. I know you're angry, or disappointed, or both, and I know that you can't think of what to say."
"But--"
He waved a hand. "I don't blame you. You're old enough now to make your own decisions in these matters. You're curious, and you think for yourself, not like me. At least, I wanted to think for myself, but when I was your age, in those days, thinking for oneself just wasn't possible. Do you understand?"
His voice had risen, and I saw the barmaid glance at us. "Uh," I said.
"If we'd all thought for ourselves," he continued, more quietly now, "Then we'd be by ourselves--really, by ourselves, out in the forest alone, each of us." He stabbed his index finger into the table. "You and I would not be sitting here having this conversation, because your mother and I would never have met. I would be scratching about in the forest, sleeping under bushes, running from bands of orcs, and your mother would be hiding in a cave instead of running a shop.
"You would not exist. None of your friends would exist. In fact, the entire wood elf race might have died out by now." He rubbed a hand across his face. I could see that he was trying not to shout. I'd never heard him shout, so I sat there, praying I wouldn't have to.
"Together," he said, "We made sure that we didn't die out. And to do that, we had to make some decisions."
"Decisions?"
"Rules," he said. "We had to make rules. Oh, nobody likes rules." He rolled his eyes. "But without rules, we'd all be miserable at best--and dead at worst." Out of steam, he sagged in his chair and gazed into the dregs of his tea.
I wanted to tell him rules could hurt people as much as help them. I ached to tell him that thinking for oneself wasn't always bad. But Father was certainly the smartest person I knew. He was right--or at least partly right. Maybe it would help if he could just see Zophia and talk to him. Zophia probably wasn't as wise as Father, but he did know some things Father seemed unable to grasp. Perhaps they could learn from each other.
I tried to think of ways to suggest the idea. "Father, Zophia says he's sorry and he agrees with you." No, that wouldn't work; it wasn't true. "Father, Tunare has punished Zophia for disobeying Her and now you can tell him you were right all along." That wasn't true either. "Father, Zophia says he has something of yours that he borrowed and..." Argh! I was grasping at straws. This was useless. I'd just have to go home and forget the whole thing.
A long moment went by, and then another. At last, Father drained his tea and stood. He rummaged in his pocket, and threw a few coins on the table.
"Well," he said, "I guess we'd better go find Zophia and clear all of this up."
I gaped at him. I had known he was wise, but could he read minds, too?
He held a hand out to me. "Come on, it'll be dark before too long."
I gathered my things, took his hand, and followed him out the door.
